Impressive sight

I have never been on a pilgrimage. I admit I never had the least desire to do so nor would go on one now except as a spectator-journalist. However, I also have to admit that everyone known to me who has been on one speaks highly of the emotional satisfaction they derived from the experience.

All religions believe in pilgrimages. For Jews and Christians, it is Jerusalem, the birthplace of both faiths. They also have lesser places of pilgrimage like Lourdes in France, where it is claimed that the sick are miraculously healed. Hindus have their Kumbh melas where they go in millions to bathe in the holy Ganga. The Sikhs have their five takhts (thrones), with the recent addition of Hemkunt Sahib in Uttarakhand. By far, the most spectacular of all pilgrimages is the haj to Mecca and Medina. It is obligatory for all Muslims who can afford it. Millions of Muslims from all parts of the world gather there to offer prayers. Those who can’t make the haj go on a lesser pilgrimage called umra. From the pictures I have seen (no non-Muslims are allowed in Mecca or Medina), the haj makes for an impressive sight, with thousands of similarly attired people going through their genuflections with military precision.

I have just finished reading a moving account of an Indian haji who travelled to Arabia and back by a steamship in 1929. Amir Ahmad Alawi (1879-1952) was a scholar and journalist. He kept a daily diary of his experiences during the journey that first published in Urdu under the title Safar-e-Sa’adat (propitious journey). It has now been translated into English as the Journey to the Holy Land: A Pilgrim’s Diary by Mushirul Hasan, till recently the vice-chancellor of Jamia Millia Islamia, and his media adviser, Rakhshanda Jalil.

The diary makes for the most pleasant and informative reading as Alawi has an eye for trivial details and relates what he had to undergo during the sea journey to Arabia, which was then under British domination. He took many bundles of paan leaves to last through his pilgrimage. He writes of the wretched conditions prevailing on the steamship and its bullying British officers. His narrative is peppered with apt couplets in Urdu and Persian. He was horrified to see Muslim girls dressed like Europeans and in lavishly designed burqas embroidered to attract attention. “When heresy enters the Kaaba, what will be left of Mussalmans?” he asks. You will enjoy reading A Pilgrim’s Diary because it is beautifully written and translated and gives you a flavour of the times.

Walk alone

I often ask myself why I go on writing. Of course, it provides me with my daal, chawal and Scotch whisky.

I could earn as much, if not more, running a dhaba on a national highway. However, writing also boosts my ego that selling tandoori chicken and parathas would not.

Some people read what I write and send me their opinions. It assures me that what I write has some impact, however minimal.

Since some of what I write also gets published in regional languages, chaiwalas in railway stations, ticket-checkers on the trains, policemen on patrol and the butchers in Khan Market make it a point to tell me that they have read some of the stuff I churn out. I feel mighty pleased with myself.

I am not sure if any of them changes his or her views after reading what I have written . I believe I was able to persuade some educated sections of my community not to listen to Bhindranwale or to consider the demand for a separate state for Sikhs.

I also write a lot against religious bigotry. I don’t think any bigot agrees with me, because many dismissed me as an agnostic, a mischief-maker trying to undermine the basis of Indian culture. I take inspiration from Rabindranath Tagore’s exhortation to “ekla cholo” (walk alone) when others abandon you. I continue to tread the lonely path.

I found further solace in a couple of lines of Urdu poetry composed by my young friend, Prem Mohan Kalra, when he came to drop his bi-weekly carton of dahi-bhalla.

Kya poochetey ho haal meyrey

karobaar kaa

Ayeeney beychtaa hoon andhon key

shahr main

You ask me about my business and

what I have in mind;

I sell mirrors in the city of the blind.

Dark storm

In company with Pilot, Scindia

and Sanjay Gandhi,

YSR was youthful and bubbly even

at 60.

Then the weather for him turned

suddenly misty

Thickening into a dark, dark storm,

And leaving behind neither foot nor

finger, neither ear nor arm.

Promises fulfilled, full of promise

yet

Or not so promising, but to the dear

ones so dear,

Death may or may not be too bad

a bet

But, oh, the thought of a youthful

death to bear

Too sad for far and near!

(Courtesy: Kuldip Salil, Delhi)